Love is the root of all sorrow.

        I know you were a friend.  I know you were honest with me.  I know that your innocent optimism changed me.

        Still, to this very moment, I worship false idols of you that I carved into my heart.  I, who was a critical collector of books and insects and tide pool animals, became a collector of daydreams.

        I was so sure that it was because you were trying to convince yourself that you did not love me “in that way” that we never kissed.  After all, you were engaged to another.  I never even held your hand.  Now I never will.  The false idols are breaking.  I should be relieved of my burden any minute now.

        What was the point?

        I realize now that what is real has no “point”.  It exists sufficient unto itself.  It is the false things that have a “point” which is relative to the other false things.

        Of course I lied.  But you know that, don’t you?  I had lost you and so what I then told to you was a melodramatic gambit to show that I wasn’t completely delusional.  There is a name for that kind of friendship.  It is love but I made it a greedy love.  I can say this now because there is no “point” to lying anymore, even if you knew I was lying.  You must turn away from me forever and I will respect that.  Affectionately.  No lie.  You have a family now.

        Even so, your final letter was a pain killer after all these years.  So you were real after all.  For a few days I felt light but there is a shadow coming called closure.

        Both of us will say no more.





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